The man rushed through a corridor without looking back, as if he was alone, and Illya Kuryakyn just fell into step behind him. They took a brief walk, until they reached what looked like a new hall. The Russian noticed that amazingly, there were huge places, and very few people, here. The man opened a door and came in a room. He didn't yet look back. No sign. No words. Illya Kuryakyn hesitated, and followed him. It was clearly an office, impersonal, but quite bright, thanks to the window. The man sat behind a desk, and took a file from a drawer. Then, he began to read, to write. He seemed to be in his prime, with an incipient baldness. The prisoner stood. He had nothing else to do. He forced himself to breathe slowly, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

-You're free, Mr Kuryakyn.

The man had spoken without raising his head. Illya heard the ticking of a clock. Or was it his heart ? He heard footsteps in the hall. He heard voices. All that suddenly stopped, for what seemed to be an eternity. He had heard words. The man, behind his desk, had said something.

-Perhaps you'd have better to sit down ?

The words were civil, their meaning almost kind, but the voice was still harsh. The man was still reading, writing. Illya Kuryakyn obeyed, hoping that the room would be gentle enough to stop spinning round and round.

-So, you're free. You are a lucky man, Mr Kuryakyn. And I take it that you must have powerful friends.

Illya Kuryakyn was appalled. Ideas blew from his mind. The room went on swimming before his eyes, and he chose to close them for awhile. He was trying to state the facts. Free ? That was simply impossible Freedom... Freedom wasn't an option.

-I'll ask you to sign this document. Then, you'll be free to go.

He opened his eyes. Of course. It was a trap. It couldn't be anything else than a trap. A cruel trap. Not so cruel. He had been condemned. He had killed an Uncle agent, a close friend, even if he didn't remember it. He was choking and he leaned back in his chair, trying to give himself an opportunity to breathe again. He had to say something...

-You're kidding, sir. You said that we should make things easier... Let's do that, please, and spare me those unpleasant jokes.

For the first time, the man looked at him, and almost hissed.

-Well, Mr Kuryakyn... I can't make it easier. You were my prisoner. Now, you are free. What else ? A guard will lead you in a room, where you'll shower, put on clothes. He'll bring you a lunch, if you are hungry. Then, you'll come back here, I'll give you different things, and you'll be free to go.

He paused.

-Is that clear enough ?

It wasn't a question.

The man pressed a button, and instantaneously, a guard appeared. Another guard. A new face. The guard motioned him to follow. Just before he crossed the threshold, the harsh voice added, ironically.

-All's well that ends well, Mr Kuryakyn...

This guard's behaviour was more more familiar to the Russian : mute, cold. As they reached the small flat, with the door closed behind him ( closed, but still not bolted...) he sat on a couch, feeling the tension in his neck, the stiffness in all his joints. Someone knocked at the door. The guard came back.

-Do you want something to eat ?

Illya Kuryakyn shook his head. The door shut. He should have asked for some aspirine...

Memory inhabits its own strange universe.

He was in Uncle Medical. He had been tracked down to a Thrush laboratory. Uncle agents had found him ... free, unbound, unconscious, due ,probably, to the blast. Then, those inquiring looks. Accusing looks.

He had first desperately tried to remember... Remember what ? He knew that he hadn't killed Mark. He knew that he wasn't a traitor. But he still had no answer to give. Remember...

Then, a film had been shown to him... Some memories had flashed. It was a silent film, but HE could hear the sounds. Mark's voice, horrified voice. Some begging words. Mark was begging him to do something. Or not to do. He heard the shot. He saw his own face. A killer's face. A despising smile.

And he saw Mark's face, Mark's incredulous face. Mark's horrified face.

And that had been a dreadful vision. Because... because that wasn't in the film. Because ... it was a memory.

So, now, he knew. He had done that. He had shot Mark Slate, in cold blood. He hadn't been drugged. He was a murderer. And logically, he was a traitor. It had to be the truth. He had seen Waverly's look, incredulous, too. Horrified, too. He had heard his questions, felt his despair, his anger. But he had nothing to say. " I can't believe it !" Waverly's words... Illya Kuryakyn couldn't believe it, either, but... it was the truth : he was guilty. He deserved his fate.

He couldn't apologize for doing what he had obviously done. For being what he obviously was.

It was far beyond any apology. Far beyond any forgiveness.

At the very beginning, he had missed his partner. Napoleon. Then he had counted his blessings. He couldn't have stand his... friend's look. At this right moment, he had known that he was guilty. Napoleon could forgive him anything. Not treason.

And a few days ago, Cutter. Jules Cutter... who had indulged with small talk about Uncle, about Waverly, about... Napoleon. Cutter ... small talk. Cutter, who had been almost attentive toward him. No, not almost. He had been quite attentive. Cutter ... attentive, attentive toward him... He had thought that he had dreamt that. That he was going insane... Then, however, he had been treated a little more decently... Nonsense !

So... freedom, now was all but preposterous !

He had thought that the best should have been for him to die. The Commission had taken another decision. He had been condemned to life imprisonment. It was... Justice.

What was happening now must be a trap, part of a plan against Thrush. However, he was going to obey.


-Alls well that ends well, Mr Solo ...

Napoleon Solo peeked at Jules Cuuter whose grim face didn' t match with the optimistic sentence.

-You look exhausted, Mr Solo.

-You look worried, Mr Cutter.

Jules Cutter sank into his seat ; his mind couldn't help but see again the recent events. He sighed.

-We might have to deal with a tricky difficulty... I know that you haven't seen Mr Kuryakyn since... what happened. I recently met him. You have to know that he obviously doesn't seem to remember anything. The Commission considered his silence as defiance. Alexander didn't understand it.

He sat up straight again, and put his hand on Solo's wrist.

-Your partner has no memory of the events, except for what he had been told, except for the film he had seen. I think that he considers himself as guilty. A sort of logical, rational... and false memory, and its as logical, as rational, and as false inference. He won't be able to explain anything, Mr Solo. Perhaps he won't be able to believe us. It won't be easy...

Solo knew that.

-So, Mr Cutter, Illya was right. What happened... might be Thrush's greatest victory. They hadn't succeed in defeating him, in breaking him. They let the dirty work to Uncle. And we made .... a damned good job, didn't we ? But Mark is alive. The film was a trick. Illya have to know that. As soon as possible.

-Alexander gave orders...


He felt alive. Reluctantly alive. Showered ( a real shower...). Shaved (on his own). Hairs combed. He had put on real clothes : underwear, socks, black jeans, shoes, white shirt, a jacket... He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and bitterly realised that it was the first time he could see his reflect since his arrival. It was eventually a familiar face. Pale, as it was to be expected, after three months without daylight, shadows under his eyes. Strained features. Illya Kuryakyn's features. No, murderer's features. Traitor's features.

He stepped out the room. No guard ; he made his way to the office, knocked at the door. No reply. So, he came in. The man raised his head and stared at him, quite rudely.

-Everything to your taste, Mr Kuryakyn ? So here are your identity papers, some money, a watch... In this case, you'll find some clothes, and all you need for the next days. Sign this document, please.

It looked like a release form... Illya Kuryakyn took the pen and signed. he was playing a game but what were the rules ? He didn't know. He barely managed to think.

-Follow me, now.

When the man brushed him, Illya Kuryakyn grabbed his arm.

-Why ? Tell me why ?

The man freed himself with an obvious disgust.

-Why ? Why Uncle is freeing a traitor ? A murderer ? Don't ask, Mr Kuryakyn. As I said, you must have very powerful friends.

He rushed out of the office. Illya Kuryakyn took the case and followed. They had to pass several gate, before they stopped in front of a large steel security door. The man used his identification code. The door clicked and opened. The man put his hand on the wall and turned toward the Russian.

-I am just the director of this place. I am given orders, and I obey. Whatever I think of it. You'll go to the embankment, below, now. A boat is waiting for you. Due to foggy conditions, you'll cross the channel. It's impossible to fly, today. Our pilot refused to ... Don't waste time : there's a storm brewing... So it's a pity that you are seasick... However, have a good trip, and, please, humor me ... go to hell !

And the door opened... The first step outside. In the open air, for the first time since three months. It was a very strange feeling, as if he had to breathe something solid. First, he couldn't move, panting, choking. But he fet drawn by the sunlight. He took some steps forward, raised his hand, and let the sunbeams warm his fingers, his palm. Then, he closed his hand, as a kid with snow flakes.